Duty and Desire: A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman

Sitting back in the chair at his study desk, the corner of his lower lip caught between his teeth, Darcy perused once more the letters of reference he held in his hand. Satisfied that he had committed all the particulars of the first to memory, he laid it aside and proceeded to the second as the baroque clock on the mantel struck a half hour past eight. As regular as that timepiece, the door to the study opened, admitting Mr. Reynolds and a footman bearing a tray laden with Darcy’s morning coffee and toast.

“Reynolds.” Darcy looked up from his reading and motioned the footman to lay the tray upon his desk. “A moment of your time.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Darcy. How can I serve you?” The older man signaled the footman to depart and to close the door behind him.

Darcy laid the remaining letters upon his desk and looked up intently at the most senior member of his Pemberley staff. Reynolds’s knowledge of the inner workings of life at Pemberley was comparable to none, and during and after the elder Mr. Darcy’s illness, his unfailing guidance in all things pertaining to the great house had been as necessary to Darcy as Hinchcliffe’s had been in the financial arena. In short, he was a man who held the Darcy name and family almost as dearly as Darcy did himself, and Darcy trusted him implicitly.

“I find that I must place you in a deuced awkward position, Reynolds, but the matter is of such import that I must ask you to bear with it and assist me.”

“Of course, sir!” Reynolds affirmed his willingness, although his face registered some surprise at his master’s preamble.

Darcy looked away from the kindly face, his embarrassment about the request he was to make acute. “Well, there is no delicate way to put this, so I shall be straightforward with you.” He turned, then, back to him. “What can you tell me of Miss Darcy’s companion, Mrs. Annesley?”

“Mrs. Annesley, sir?” Reynolds’s eyebrows shot up. He slowly rocked forward on his toes and back again before answering. “Well, sir…She be a fine woman, sir, quietlike and dignified.”

“And…?” Darcy prodded, as uncomfortable with insisting upon more answers as Reynolds was in giving them.

“And what, sir?”

“The woman has been in residence for four months,” Darcy observed grittily, annoyed with the man’s obtuseness. “There must be more you can tell me of her!”

Reynolds frowned from under his bushy, white brows as he brought his finger to his stock and pulled at it. He took a few more moments to clear his throat. Then, pulling himself up painfully straight, he addressed Darcy in a tone fraught with disapproval. “I don’t hold with gossip, Mr. Darcy, as you should know. Don’t listen to it and don’t pass it.” He squinted down into his young master’s countenance and, seeing the dissatisfaction etched upon it, added carefully, “All I will say is, she don’t give herself airs, and she’s kind to all the staff, from top to bottom, sir.” He fidgeted a little under Darcy’s silent, searching gaze before bursting out, “Miss Darcy is wonderful fond of her.” He looked for a reprieve from any further expectations and, finding none, seemed to wrestle with himself for a few moments before confessing finally, “And I bless her, Mr. Darcy, bless her morning and night for what she’s done for Miss; and there, sir, is the end of it.”

“That will be all then, Reynolds.” Darcy dismissed him, his lips quirking at what was, for his butler, a spirited defense of the lady. Mrs. Annesley had Reynolds’s approval, and there was much in that. Perhaps he could put more credence in the degree of glow issuing from those references that lay before him concerning the lady. He reached over and poured some of the fresh cream into his cup, then filled it to the brim with the fragrant brew before picking up the two letters again and searching out the third. Bringing his coffee to his lips, he blew on it gently as he committed the facts of the third letter to memory. The contents of the letters were not unknown to him. He had read them just as diligently upon their arrival five months before, when he had been frantic for a new, trustworthy companion for Georgiana. But this time he looked for something more revealing of the lady than impeccable qualifications and unexceptional testimonials from past employers. That “something” still eluded him.

He tossed the letters down again and rose with his cup to contemplate the soothing view from the window. Before his passing, this study had been his father’s private preserve, its carved, wood-paneled walls a place of mystery during Darcy’s childhood and a place of judgment during his adolescence. It was an intimate room and had served as the estate’s book room until three-quarters of a century before, when a new, grandly appointed library had been included in his great-grandfather’s plans for Pemberley’s improvements. Now, although the study continued to house treasured tokens of Darcy patriarchs, it served principally as an archive of Darcy’s personal book collection as well as the papers and folios that recorded the business interests and estate affairs of the family since such records had been kept.

Added to the masculine amenities of sturdy chairs and tables, displays of exquisitely crafted edged weaponry, and hunting prints was a superb view out the study’s several windows. His shoulder propped against a frame, Darcy stared into the sunken garden laid out many years ago by his grandmother. It lay bedecked in a shimmering gown of snow, its pristine whiteness in artful contrast to a variety of evergreens within the garden’s design and the red-brick walk that meandered delightfully about it.

As pleasing as was the view, it soon disappeared from before Darcy’s eyes, transcended by visions of Georgiana at supper the night before. The dinner she had ordered was more than satisfying, consisting of many of his favorite dishes and a fine wine that had complemented all. The table had supported a tasteful arrangement of flowers and greenery, prepared, he discovered upon his mention of it, by her own hand. She had blushed faintly in pleasure at his approval and thanked him with a graciousness of temper that he had never surmised from her in the past.

Their conversation had been of local matters: children born to his tenants, deaths in the village, the harvest festival in Lambton and the annual service of thanksgiving at St. Lawrence’s a month previously. All the while he had observed her, gingerly testing the extent of the changes in this new creature that was his sister. There were moments still of shyness and hesitancy. His teasing remarks were occasionally answered with a glance of uncertainty; yet she had replied to his questions concerning their tenants and neighbors in sure tones, a gentle, newfound compassion suffusing her countenance as she spoke. By the end of their meal, he could only sit and marvel at her.

She had risen when the last cover was removed to leave him to a glass of port, but he had refused, declaring that surely she must have a piece to play for him after all these months and several letters professing her diligence. She had laughed, her happiness in his company transparent in her face, and allowed him to lead her back to the music room, where she had played for him a full half hour. Then, bringing forth his much-neglected violin, he had joined her at the pianoforte and they’d played duets until their fingers ached.

Darcy looked down at his left hand, flexing it against the remaining soreness, but a sound at the door brought his head up. His lips pressed into a firm, straight line. The lady was early, but all to the better. Perhaps he could now get some answers.

“Enter,” he called, but the only response was a shuffling of the doorknob and a strange tapping noise. “Enter!” he called again, and the doorknob turned just enough to allow the door to fall away slightly from the frame. Confounded, Darcy straightened and took a step. “What the—?”

The door suddenly burst aside on its hinges, and a large blur of brown, black, and white launched itself across the floor. Darcy bolted to his desk and dropped his cup before the whirlwind could come upon him. “Trafalgar—sit!” he bellowed and braced himself for certain impact, but the moment the words left his lips the hound’s hindquarters hit the polished wood floor. The animal skidded the last several feet, his front feet wildly pawing for purchase before coming to rest against the toe of Darcy’s boot. A large pink tongue flickered over the black tip before the animal raised deliriously happy eyes to his master’s face.

“Mr. Darcy! Oh, sir…I am so sorry, sir!” Darcy looked away from the ridiculous grin of his errant beast to behold one of the junior grooms standing in the doorway seesawing from one foot to another while wringing his cap between his fists. “I was bringin’ ’im in, as you ordered, Mr. Darcy. He gave me the slip, sir. He’s that canny.”

Darcy looked down at Trafalgar, who meanwhile had turned his head back over his shoulder to observe the groom’s recital. If he had not known better, Darcy would have sworn the animal was laughing. He shook his head. “You may leave him with me, Joseph, but should he escape you again, march him back to the steward’s entrance rather than letting him into my study. He must be made to learn some manners.” Darcy leaned down and grasped the hound’s muzzle, lifting it to his gaze. “That is, if you wish to continue a gentleman’s companion.” Trafalgar snuffled a bit at his tone but then barked his agreement, sealing it with a surreptitious lick of Darcy’s hand.

“But, Mr. Darcy, I never let ’im in!”

“You did not open the door, Joseph?”

“No, sir; never, sir! He was in your study afore I reached the hall corner.” Both men looked sharply at the hound, who was totally occupied at the moment with exhibiting behavior appropriate to a beast belonging to the most discriminating of gentlemen.

“You mean to tell me that he opened the door himself?” Darcy demanded incredulously. The young groom twisted his cap again and shrugged his shoulders.

“Excuse me, but it is quite possible the hound did open the door on its own,” a smoothly modulated, feminine voice interrupted gently. “I have seen it done as a trick, although the animal must first be trained to it.” The groom moved away from the door and tugged his forelock at the lady as she came around him. She smiled and nodded to him before turning to Darcy and making her curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Mrs. Annesley!” Darcy glanced at the clock, which faithfully displayed the fact that the time was indeed nine and his appointment with Georgiana’s companion was upon him. This was definitely not how he had envisioned their interview to begin. But the consternation he was feeling at being caught off guard was deftly hidden. “Please come in, ma’am.” Darcy stepped back and indicated a chair.

The lady inclined her head and entered the study, walking gracefully past the groom. Trafalgar looked at her with interest and rose to carry on an investigation, but the impulse was quelled by a stern look from his master. He lay down instead at Darcy’s feet, his muzzle on his paws and his eyes flicking from one to the other in anticipation.

Mrs. Annesley appeared to Darcy much as he remembered her from five months before, save, perhaps, for the amused twinkle in her eye as she surveyed Trafalgar, who had taken upon himself guard duty of his master’s boots. Last summer, Darcy had looked not for a merry heart, but for a steady character, whose motherly understanding and firm principles might rescue Georgiana from the depths of heartache and self-recrimination into which she had fallen after Ramsgate. Apparently, the lady had possessed such a heart in addition to his requirements and had succeeded beyond all his hopes. Whatever her method, he thought, he was prepared to be extremely generous.

“Mrs. Annesley,” he began as he looked at her across his desk, “am I to understand you believe this misbegotten beggar has learned to open doors?”

“It is quite possible, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with a gentle smile. “My sons taught their dog all manner of tricks; opening doors was one of them. Although”—she looked down into the hound’s attentive face—“I think we may allow in this case that the last person to leave your study may not have brought the door completely shut. But with one such success, I have no doubt that an intelligent animal like Master Trafalgar will continue to try his luck.”

“I fear you are right.” Darcy cocked a brow down at the “beggar,” who took the moment to yawn and innocently blink back his regard. “You mentioned sons,” he continued. “Are they at school?”

“My younger son, Titus, is at University, sir. He was admitted to Trinity last year under the sponsorship of a friend of his late father. Roman, my older son, is graduated and serving a curacy in Weston-super-Mare. If it pleases you, sir, I hope to spend Christmas there with them both.” She returned his gaze pleasantly, the openness of her request inclining Darcy to grant it immediately and, further, to offer her transportation to the very doorstep. “You are very kind, Mr. Darcy,” she responded, the light in her hazel eyes glowing warmly before she bowed her head.

“It is the very least of services I would offer you, Mrs. Annesley.” Darcy rose from his chair and stepped to the window, his jaw working as he searched for an avenue that would take the interview where he wished it to go. “I am very much in your debt, ma’am. My sister…” His throat seemed to close up at the remembrance of his joyful homecoming. He began again. “My sister is so wonderfully changed, I can scarce believe it! You know what she was when you came to Pemberley, so broken…” He turned away to the window behind him, determined to maintain his dignity. “But even before that horrible business, she had been shy and retiring. Only in her music did she express herself freely. Now…!” He turned back to her sympathetic eye. “How did you do it, ma’am?” His eyes bore down upon her as his voice gained stridency. “My cousin and I did everything in our power, all we could conceive of, to recall Georgiana to herself; but it was for naught. You have succeeded where we had failed, and I would know how!”

The lady made no immediate reply, but the compassionate cast of her countenance gave him to know that his imperious words had not offended her. “Dear sir,” she began quietly, “I am sure you did all that you could to aid Miss Darcy. But, sir, her sorrows were deep—deeper than you know—deeper than it was in your power to reach. You must not berate yourself or your efforts.”

Darcy sucked in his breath in surprise. How dare she patronize him? Not in his power! He drew himself up, looming over the small, seated woman. “Then, ma’am, I must inquire, by what ‘power’ did you descend to my sister’s great depths and pull her out?” he returned stiffly, his lips curled in a sneer. “Will charms and potions be discovered among Miss Darcy’s bonnets and reticules?”

Mrs. Annesley’s eyes widened briefly at his tone, but her composure did not desert her. She returned his bold look, albeit not his incivility. “No sir, such things you will not find,” she replied firmly. “The human heart is not so easily mastered. Trumpery will not turn it aside of its course.”

Darcy’s face darkened, his brows slanting down in distaste. “You speak of her feelings for…” He hesitated and then spat out the words, “her seducer?”

The lady did not recoil at his frankness but answered in kind. “No, Mr. Darcy, I do not. Miss Darcy’s melancholy was never from lovesickness for that man. When you discovered them at Ramsgate and confronted Mr. Wickham, Miss Darcy’s eyes were opened to his character. She has not spent these months in regretting him.”

While she spoke, Darcy resumed his seat at the desk, his lips pursed in dissatisfaction. “You have revealed what Miss Darcy’s thoughts were not, and for what it is worth I am relieved on that score. But you have yet to reveal what they have been, or what you have done to effect their remedy. Come, Mrs. Annesley,” he insisted, his shoulders stiff with hauteur, “I require answers.”

The lady’s brow wrinkled slightly as she returned his gaze, her lips pressed together, in apparent consideration of whether to meet his demand. Taken aback at her hesitancy, Darcy felt a niggling doubt arise in his breast that the woman before him would comply with his wishes. Accompanying that thought was the conviction that the merry heart he had detected earlier might just beat before a backbone made of steel.

“Mr. Darcy, do you give any credence to Providence?” That she had answered him with a question startled him no less than did its subject.

“Providence, Mrs. Annesley?” Darcy stared at her, his late dissatisfaction with the ways of the Supreme Judge hardening the set of his features. What has Providence to do with this?

“Do you hold that God directs the affairs of men?”

“I am fully aware of the meaning, Mrs. Annesley. I was well catechized as a child,” he rebuked her icily, “but I fail to see…”

“Then, sir, how does it go? Do you remember?”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed dangerously at her challenge. Through clenched jaws he recited the catechism passage quickly, “‘God, the great Creator of all things, doth uphold, direct, dispose, and govern all creatures, actions, and things, from the greatest even to the least, by His most wise and holy providence.’ I had forgotten, ma’am, that you are the widow of a clergyman. Doubtless, you are used to seeing all about you as directly from the hand of the Almighty, unlike the majority of us, who must strive in the world of men.”

His sarcasm went wide of its mark, for she only smiled gently at his answer. “Very good, Mr. Darcy. You were quite perfect in your recitation.” She rose from her chair, her movement exciting Trafalgar’s interest once again. The hound pulled himself up, shook himself thoroughly from ear to tail, and looked to Darcy expectantly.

“Mrs. Annesley.” Darcy scowled darkly as he also stood. “You have in nowise given me a satisfactory account. I am indebted to you, certainly, but I am not accustomed to obtuseness from my employees. I insist upon a straightforward answer, ma’am.”

“When my husband died of a pneumonia contracted from his parish work, Mr. Darcy, leaving me with two sons to raise and no means to keep a roof over our heads, I was cast into a deep sorrow much like Miss Darcy’s.” She bowed her head for a moment, whether to collect herself or to escape his disapproving scowl, Darcy did not know. Raising her head, she continued with feeling. “I was recalled to the ways of Providence by a friend who reminded me of two convergent truths. The first was from Scripture. It begins, ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’” She looked intently up into his eyes, her memories kindling her face. “The second comes from the Bard:

Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

“You ask me what I did for your sister, Mr. Darcy, and I must tell you I did nothing, nothing more than my friend did for me. It was not in your power or mine to comfort Miss Darcy and bring her from sorrow to joy. For that, you must look elsewhere, sir; and the place to begin is with Miss Darcy herself.”

Most definitely made of steel! Darcy looked down into the small woman’s steadfast countenance. She was correct, after all. The answers he wanted could come only from Georgiana, whether this woman had performed magic or had merely quoted Scripture to her. Whatever the case, he would have to dare the permanence of his sister’s recovery. The thought chilled him.

“You are a plain speaker, I see, when you finally come to the point, Mrs. Annesley,” he drawled as he came around his desk. “I will take your advice concerning Miss Darcy, although I will admit to being disinclined to tease her about it until I am convinced of her complete recovery.” He stopped before her and inclined his head. “I do truly thank you, ma’am, for whatever your influence has been over my sister. You came highly recommended by your previous employers, and my own staff sings your praises.” Darcy had begun stiffly, but as the truth of his words made itself felt in his breast, his voice softened. “Please accept my sincere gratitude.”

Mrs. Annesley smiled at his speech and dropped him a curtsy before fixing him once more with twinkling eyes. “Your gratitude is received with welcome, Mr. Darcy. Miss Darcy is the loveliest young lady I have had the pleasure to know, and she will, I have no doubt, grow into a noble womanhood. Do forbear quizzing her, as you have said, but give her your time and love. She will blossom, and you will discover all.”

“May it be as you say, ma’am.” Darcy inclined his head, signaling that the interview was at an end.

The lady responded in kind and turned to leave, but she stopped short at the door and faced him once again. “Pardon me, Mr. Darcy.”

“Yes, Mrs. Annesley?”

“Did you wish Master Trafalgar to have the freedom of the house now that you are returned?”

“That is my habit, Mrs. Annesley; although he usually stays by me.” Darcy looked around the study, but the hound was nowhere to be seen. “Did you open the door just now?”

“No, Mr. Darcy, it was open already. I think Master Trafalgar became impatient with us.”

A high-pitched wail echoed beyond the door, followed by the drumming sound of paws hitting the wooden floor of the stairs and then pounding down the hall.

“Step back, Mrs. Annesley!” Darcy warned just as Trafalgar rounded the corner and shot through the doorway. At the sight of his master, the hound checked gracefully and approached him at a slow trot, skirting round him and coming to heel just behind his boots. “What have you done now, Monster?” He sighed. Trafalgar delicately licked his chops as Darcy’s cook came to a breathless halt at his study door.

All thought of putting Mrs. Annesley’s advice to the test was laid aside as the remainder of Darcy’s first week home was filled with the necessity of attending to estate business. Having been absent during this year’s harvest, Darcy had much to do to acquaint himself with the conditions of Pemberley’s numerous farms and concerns. His steward was most anxious for his attention to be lavished upon the quarterly books, as well as for the opportunity to make his report on the success of that season’s venture in the application of Mr. Young’s New Agriculture. Darcy had never been one of that company of landowners satisfied with mere bookkeeping; thus, more than one afternoon was spent on arduous tours of inspection and discussion with workers and tenants alike on the results of their season’s labors. Then, of course, there was Mrs. Reynolds to consult concerning the Pemberley household, Reynolds with whom to discuss the servants and the expenses of the hall, and a myriad of staff to interview on the preparations for a return to the traditional celebration of Christmas at Pemberley and arrangements for the visit of his Uncle and Aunt Fitzwilliam.

By Saturday night, Darcy was exhausted and his mind be-numbed with facts, figures, and the innumerable details requisite to making those decisions that would lead Pemberley and its people to a prosperous future. After his last appointment with his stable manager, Fletcher had anticipated him and, considerately, provided a relaxing bath, followed by correct but comfortable dress for his dinner with his sister. They had dined quietly, but the assurance and modest grace with which Georgiana conducted their meal generated more questions in his breast, questions that clamored against all the others residing there for resolution. His sister could not have missed his distraction, so great was it that he contributed little more than a few syllables to their conversation. Georgiana, a loving smile gracing her face, had assumed that responsibility and entertained him with accounts of events at Pemberley during his absence until, noting his fatigue, she had sweetly offered to play for him when their meal was through.

Sitting back now on the divan in the music room with his eyes closed, Darcy briefly considered his sister’s easy confidence at table and her womanly solicitude for his comfort. Her attention to his mood and need for diversion seemed further evidence of the efficacy of that agency about which Mrs. Annesley had made only inscrutable hints. He made a fleeting attempt to reason it through before he surrendered to the music, allowing it to spread its soothing balm over his weariness. It was not long before he knew himself to be drifting into that seductive otherworld that calls to the unwary caught between wakefulness and sleep. As he listened, too tired to pull back from its borders, the music enveloped Darcy’s attenuated senses and began playing tricks upon them. The figure at the pianoforte shifted curiously and dimmed, gently transforming herself from one dear to him into another, whose dearness in more cogent hours he would not allow. But, at this moment, that dearness seemed perfectly reasonable; and he welcomed her appearance with a languorous smile and a deep, inner sigh.

Contentment with Elizabeth’s presence in his home, with her ease at the pianoforte playing for him, and with the notion of their companionable seclusion warmed his frame like the effects of a fine brandy. He was sure that if he moved his foot just so he would fetch up against her embroidery basket, and if he had the strength to slide his hand along the divan, he would find her lavender-scented shawl carelessly draped over its back. His eyes still closed, he turned his head and breathed in slowly. Yes. He smiled again; he could detect that reminder of her drifting to him from within its silken folds.

The music continued from her hand, softly flowing, seeking out all his hollow places to fill them with longing for what only she could bring to him. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, his voice low-pitched as he acknowledged her power. The music hesitated, then continued on its intimate exploration of his emotions. He knew himself to be enthralled, just as he had been at Sir William and Lucas’s, during the ball at Netherfield. He knew it, and rather than pushing it away, he welcomed it with a joy that he now saw mirrored in her eyes. They were strolling through the conservatory, his parents’ Eden, lush with blossoms, and she was whispering of something that necessitated leaning down close.

“Fitzwilliam.” His name on her lips, so close that her breath fanned his cheek, was a most agreeable sensation. The answering surge of blood through his veins emboldened him to reach for her hand.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, returning her whisper with feeling.

“Fitzwilliam?” The question in her voice was not what he was expecting, nor was its timbre. “Brother?”

Darcy’s eyes flew open as, with a jolt, he came back to himself and to the reality of Georgiana perched on the divan beside him, valiantly attempting to suppress the cascade of giggles that threatened to spill over fingers pressed tightly to her lips. He blinked at her, for a few moments unable to comprehend that what he had felt, so real his heart still beat powerfully in response, had all been a dream. He looked desperately beside him on the divan, but no shawl reposed there, nor was an embroidery basket to be seen at his feet.

“Brother, what are you searching for? May I be of help?” Georgiana had sobered somewhat, but laughter still danced in her eyes, and her lower lip was firmly caught in droll amusement at his disordered state.

Darcy eyed her with sudden horror. What had he said as he sat here dreaming? How had he allowed it to happen? A lingering warmth suffused his body, reminding him of the strength of the inducement he had withstood until fatigue had breached his defenses. If he was to recoup his losses, he must needs rally immediately. But the freezing retort died, stillborn before it reached his lips, as he stared in new awareness at his sister. When had Georgiana ever dared to laugh so? When was the last time he had been brother to her, rather than guardian-father?

His bemused regard of her was too much a test of her equanimity. Georgiana’s laughter spilled forth in beautiful swells that brought tears to her eyes, and when he allowed himself a rueful grin in response, she sank helplessly against the back of the divan. “Oh, Fitzwilliam!” she finally managed, “I pray you will forgive me, but I have never seen you so!”

“Yes, well…I believe that I must have fallen asleep,” he offered uncomfortably as he straightened his posture from the traitorous one that had encouraged his indiscretion.

“Well asleep…and dreaming, I should imagine,” she replied, looking at him keenly through tear-brightened eyes. She continued softly, “Will you tell me about Miss Elizabeth Bennet now, Brother?”

Darcy peered down into her open, earnest face for several moments before looking away. Tell her, a voice within him urged. In truth, what is there to tell? We quarreled, we called a truce, and we danced and quarreled again. Finis! He returned to his sister’s hopeful countenance and abandoned immediately any idea of offering her such a prosaic account. It would not do, nor was it entirely the truth.

“What is she like, Brother? Should I like her?” Georgiana’s smile became wistful as she gently pressed him.

Darcy felt his reticence slip and his heart expand as he beheld her so. “So many questions, my dear,” he murmured as he took her hand. “Do you truly wish answers to them all?”

Her hand turned in his and squeezed it briefly. “I have tried to be content with your wish for privacy, Fitzwilliam, and not tease you. But so often you are distracted. A certain look crosses your face, and I sense you are thinking of her.” She blushed as he started at her assertion. “At least, I believe that is so.”

“Distracted? How so? I am sure you must be mistaken,” he denied swiftly, but it did not dissuade her.

“Were you not, just now, dreaming of Miss Elizabeth?”

Darcy knew he was fairly caught. Georgiana was asking for his trust, requesting that he make trial of her. This change in her both excited his admiration and alarmed him. Her new wholeness was all and more than he could have wished for; but he could not understand it or bring himself to question her concerning it. Nor could he, for fear of the fragility of her newfound confidence, withstand her plea for anything that was clearly in his power to give. It was surely check and mate. How could he be anything less than truthful with this precious one entrusted to him by Heaven and their father?

Darcy took a steadying breath. “I will tell you what you wish to know as far as I am able.” He held up a warning hand at her bright smile. “But I warn you now that you will find it all rather disappointing. I am not a ‘romantic.’ Although I do not pretend to know her mind, on that subject the lady in question would surely agree.” He paused to assess the effect of his caution, but the dimple on Georgiana’s cheek only deepened further. He sighed in resignation. “Where should you like me to begin?”

“Tell me what she is like! Miss Elizabeth Bennet must be a singular lady to have earned your regard.” Georgiana settled back on the divan, awaiting his answer as she had awaited the stories he had read to her as a child.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is…” Darcy’s brow wrinkled in thought. He had never tried to quantify her. She did not precisely belong within any group of women of his acquaintance. She was…Elizabeth! “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a female who defies the usual categories of Society.” He frowned into space. “That is to say, she is unusual. But,” he hastened to add, “you must not imagine she is an Antidote or one of those dreadful Unconventional Females.” He smiled to himself. “One of her neighbors, a squire, spoke of her as a woman of ‘uncommon good sense, all wrapped up in as neat a little package as could be desired.’ The description does not do her justice, but it is not far off the mark.”

“She is pretty then? Beautiful?” Georgiana prodded him.

She, a beauty? I would as soon call her mother a wit. He flinched at the memory of his injudicious words and wondered that he had ever thought so.

“I did not think so at first, but that was because she is not formed in the classical manner and I did not have the wit to appreciate her.” Darcy found himself becoming more expansive as he concentrated on answering his sister truthfully. “As I grew to know her, however, I found her very pleasing. Very pleasing, indeed! It was her eyes, I think, that first arrested my attention. They are very expressive, and when she lifts her brow, they speak volumes to those who can—”

A giggle interrupted his soliloquy. “Forgive me, Brother,” Georgiana apologized sincerely. “Do go on.”

“She is beautiful, yes. I think so, at any rate.” He finished abruptly. “What more do you wish to know?”

“Is she kind as well as beautiful?” Georgiana’s voice trembled a little.

Alert to her apprehension, Darcy was thankful for his answer. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a strong-minded young woman,” he admitted, “but also a most kind one. Her attention to her sister who fell ill at Netherfield was unflagging. Nothing was done for Miss Bennet that Miss Elizabeth did not do herself.” Recollecting other scenes, he continued, “I have seen her set crusty old majors at ease and buck up the confidence of shy misses and country-bred youths almost in the same breath.” He laughed at the memory of that evening and then almost immediately sobered. “But I must say that she does not suffer fools or toady to those who may or may not be her betters. She is polite, of course, but she can hold her own. To that, my own experience can testify!”

“Yes,” his sister responded eagerly. “And were you able to regain her good favor?”

Darcy’s brow wrinkled once more as he pressed his lips together, considering her question. What should he say? What was the truth? “I truly do not know, my dear,” he confessed. “She accepted my hand at the ball, or rather she acquiesced for politeness’s sake, and we seemed to get on; but then, for various reasons, the accord we had reached began to unravel. Afterward, events so transpired that she would not have welcomed my company on any terms.”

The pleasurable sensations Georgiana’s questions had conjured in his breast faded as his narrative reached the point of their true state of affairs. Their place remained empty as they took flight and left him with only his duty and the ache of a frustrated desire. He should not indulge these memories, he told himself severely. Was not he, himself, the assassin of any inclinations in that direction? There was no purpose to this; it was against all reason that he should tease himself thus.

“I have not seen or spoken to her since that night,” he continued brusquely, “and, as Bingley has recovered from his infatuation with her sister, it does not seem reasonable to expect that she will ever come in my way again. And that, my dear sister, is all there is to that!”

“You will not seek her out?” Georgiana looked at him with a mixture of surprise and regret. “You will not preserve the acquaintance?”

“No,” he replied, choosing the plain, unvarnished truth over a softer answer.

“I shall never meet her then?” she asked sadly.

The droop of her shoulders at his reply gave Darcy pause. “I shall not say ‘never,’ dearest,” he retreated, “but it is not likely. Her fortune is very small. She would not move in the same circles of Society in which we do.”

“I should still like to meet her, Brother,” Georgiana whispered.

“I think I should like that as well, Georgiana,” he returned. “Although why, and to what purpose, I do not know, save that I believe you could not find a truer friend.” The idea surprised in him a comforting hope. “Perhaps that is enough.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must take myself off to bed. Sherril has nearly killed me with clambering over grain sacks and up and down loft ladders, and I do not wish to fall asleep in public again!”

He left her looking after him with a pensive expression upon her sweet face. When he reached the door, he looked back to give her a last, bracing smile; but she was no longer aware of him. Her regal bearing was bent in such an attitude of contemplation that a shiver of apprehension shook Darcy at the sight. What had been the effect of his words? Had he overburdened his sister or disappointed her in some fashion? Perhaps she was merely fatigued. In truth, he had been so caught up with the business of Pemberley that he had not seen to her ease or enjoyment. Rather, she had spent herself in entertaining him! He continued to his chambers and pulled at the bell, deep in self-excoriation. The morrow would be spent at Georgiana’s command, Darcy vowed as he awaited Fletcher. And as tomorrow would be Sunday, the business of Pemberley could damn well wait!

Zealous to put into action his resolution to be at his sister’s service, Darcy awoke earlier than was his habit the following morning. Lying there among his night-tossed pillows and quilts, he wondered that sleep had ever claimed him. The half-dreams he had experienced during Georgiana’s music had re-animated and, worse, exposed that portion of his heart that he had thought successfully packed away. In truth, he had reconciled himself to the fact of his admiration for Elizabeth Bennet. Its veracity was attested to by the silken keepsake resting within the pages of his book. But the dream of her at home in his home and the degree of satisfaction that vision had brought to him in his unguarded state were appallingly dangerous to his future peace.

“Very dangerous,” he spoke aloud, lecturing his errant whimsy, for Georgiana had been more correct than he had acknowledged. The source of at least some of his distraction had been fancies of Elizabeth, as he had begun looking at all that was familiar to him—all that was Pemberley—with what he imagined to be her critical eye. “It will not do, sir!”

The sounds of drawers opening and shutting from behind his dressing room door broke upon his consciousness. What? Why is Fletcher about so early? The question of arising thus decided for him, Darcy flung back the quilts; and rising smoothly from his bed, he quietly moved across the room. Pulling open the door to his dressing room, he found his valet already within arranging his clothes, a ewer of steaming sandalwood-scented water standing at the ready.

“Fletcher!” he growled, pulling his dressing gown about him. “You are early this morning!” He stopped to stifle a yawn. “You have ever been mindful of your duties, but this is more than scrupulous attention!”

“Ahem.” Fletcher cleared his throat and flushed an alarming shade of red. “Yes, sir. It is my…ah…pleasure, Mr. Darcy.”

“Your pleasure! Are you ill, man? Tell me if you are ill at once! I will not have you attending me if you should be in bed. One of the other servants can assist me.”

As red as Fletcher’s face had been, it now turned quite pale. “Oh no, sir! I am very well!”

Darcy examined him skeptically. “You do not look it! Come, man, physic yourself and be done with it!”

If possible, Darcy’s advice caused Fletcher to blanch even further. “I assure you, sir, I am not ill, and the last woman I want to see is Molly!”

This information caused Darcy’s brow to shoot skyward. “I thought you and the herb woman had an understanding of sorts, Fletcher.”

Fletcher sniffed. “Molly is of the same opinion, sir, but I never gave her my promise.” He turned to his barbering instruments, plunging them into the hot, scented water. “Nor have I done wrong by her!” he added emphatically. “We were never alone, sir!”

“But things have changed, have they?” Darcy crossed his arms over his chest, dismayed that this sort of unpleasantness was occurring among his staff. Lovers’ quarrels between servants caused tensions to percolate throughout a household.

“Yes, sir, they have.”

“And this excessive attention to your duties?”

“It’s the ‘green-eyed monster,’ sir.” Fletcher sighed. “Everywhere I go, it’s either Molly’s anger, or her friends giving me a piece of their mind, or it’s another woman suggesting we keep company now I’m ‘free.’ You have no idea, Mr. Darcy!”

“I believe I may have an inkling.” Darcy snorted as he sat down in the shaving chair. “What do you propose to do?”

“If I may, Mr. Darcy, I would like to take my holiday early this year. I’d like to travel a bit before seeing my parents.” Fletcher peered at him furtively as he placed the warmed towels around Darcy’s neck.

“Lord Brougham’s largesse burning a hole in your pocket, Fletcher?”

Fletcher colored up again. “No sir, not at all, sir.” He grasped the boar’s hair soaping brush and swirled it vigorously in the cup. “I’m looking rather to invest it, sir.”

Darcy pursed his lips but was denied further questioning by the lathered brush being liberally applied to his face. As Fletcher stropped the shaving blade, Darcy considered whether he should probe further into the man’s strange fluctuations in complexion and his cryptic answer.

“If you would lift your chin, sir.” Fletcher turned back to him, the bright blade clasped firmly, ready to begin. Darcy settled into the chair, lifted his chin, and decided, under the circumstances, to leave the matter unexamined.